


Dream a Little Dream

by ssclassof56



Series: Agent Pemberley [8]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 02:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10150712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: In the commissary, conversation turns to the subject of dreams.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal's Section7MFU for PicFic Tuesday  
> Prompt: The picture & a follow-up to Illya's birthday

Napoleon smiled amiably and murmured polite responses as Parker, a Section III agent, expounded on his recent vacation. His twin daughters featured heavily in the interminable pile of snapshots. Frowning in unconcealed boredom, Illya made repeated moves to abandon them. His partner’s discreet grip on his forearm foiled his efforts.  
  
Eventually the stream of photos and anecdotes ran dry. While Parker scanned the commissary for his next quarry, the Enforcement agents withdrew to a table across the room.  
  
Napoleon sat down and sipped his coffee. “Parker’s girls,” he mused, “look remarkably like him.”  
  
“Poor things,” Illya returned sourly as he smoothed the crease in his coat sleeve with exaggerated care.  
  
Napoleon grimaced. “Hey now, be nice. They're not as bad as all that.”  
  
“If he is wise, he is setting aside large dowries for them.”  
  
Napoleon opened his mouth to argue, then drank his coffee instead. “At least they're twins. They’ll always have each other,” he said finally.  
  
Illya did not respond. He sat hunched over the table, leaning on his elbows. He stirred his spoon idly around his cup of tea and stared at the napkin dispenser.  
  
Napoleon signaled to Fred for more coffee. When the counterman had refilled his cup, he said, “Kopek for your thoughts.”  
  
To his surprise, Illya looked up with his lips curved in a half-smile. “I had a strange dream the other night. Very vivid.”  
  
“If it was the night of your birthday dinner, I'm not surprised. Was it pink elephants or a legion of hobgoblins?”  
  
Illya shook his head. “This was the night before, on the eve of my birthday.” He took a sip of his tea, and finding it cold, pushed it aside. “I dreamed I was awakened by two young boys. Twins. They made a rather poor attempt to sneak up on me. I rolled over and pretended to snore. It felt familiar, as if we had played the game before.”  
  
“Dreams are like that sometimes.”  
  
“I suppose they are. This one felt very real, though. I remember clearly how they crawled over the bed and tackled me. I held the pillow over my head, but they still managed to pull at my ears.”  
  
“Your ears?”  
  
“It is a birthday custom. They pulled my ears and said ‘S dnyem roshdeniya, Papa.’” Illya met Napoleon’s eyes and colored faintly. “Their accents were very good.”  
  
At the scrape of the neighboring chair, he fell silent. Kitt Kittridge sat down abruptly. “Pardon the intrusion, but I couldn't take another of Parker’s photos. I told him I had urgent need to talk with you two.”  
  
Napoleon gave a welcoming smile. “That’s quite all right. Illya was just telling me about a dream he had. You know, I remember reading somewhere that Russians consider birthday dreams to be prophetic.” He turned his beatific smile on his partner, who narrowed his eyes in annoyance.  
  
“Not having visions of your own death, are you, old boy?” Kitt chuckled loudly and clapped Illya on the shoulder, oblivious to the recipient’s pained expression.  
  
“No. It was about twin sons.” Napoleon blew on his coffee and added, “He's promised to name one after me.”  
  
“Hope they were better looking than Parker’s two. Just like their father.” Kitt shook his head sadly. “And he's got a face like a dropped pie.”  
  
Illya sighed as Napoleon turned to him expectantly. “They looked just like me.”  
  
“Poor things.”  
  
Illya ignored him. He stared at a spot on the tabletop, his brow wrinkled in thought. “Exactly like me at that age. Except for their eyes. Those were—” He stopped short. Raising his head with a jerk, his gaze flew across the commissary.  
  
Kitt slapped the table and brayed with laughter. “Slate just took one look at Parker with those pictures and ran like the clappers. I haven't seen him move that fast since Algiers.” He gestured to the entrance, and Napoleon turned to look.  
  
Illya stared at the lunch counter. Parker stood with his back to them, commentating on his snapshots to those seated at the stools. Heather McNabb listened with a stiff smile, her foot tapping rapidly. Disregarding her, Illya peered intently at the agent to her left.  
  
Faustina Pemberley looked up from the pictures and raised a questioning brow at his scrutiny. Then, darting a quick glance at Parker, she screwed her face into a childish mask. Her grey eyes sparkled with mischief.  
  
“Grey,” he murmured. “Their eyes were grey.” 


End file.
